Page 40 of Ruthless Savior
“And to you.”
I blink at him. “I haven’t done anything other than screw everything up.”
“It takes nerve to stay here. To trust that someone else can handle what you feel responsible for.” He takes another sip of his whiskey. “I’m no stranger to screwing things up, Leila. It’s what you do after that matters, I hope. And you’ve stayed here insteadof rushing out and making it all worse again, no matter how much you want to go home. I think that’s admirable.”
Something warm grows in my chest at that, and I feel that prickle over my skin, that awareness of being alone with him. He looks unfairly handsome, leaning against the sideboard in the low light of the office, framed by the window and the falling snow. Like a dark gothic hero out of a novel. That warmth spreads through me, my stomach tightening, and I wonder what would happen if I got up and crossed the room to him.
He’s made that very clear,I tell myself. He’d push me away, and I’d have to feel the sting of rejection all over again. Don’t I have enough to deal with, without continuing to fantasize about this being something it’s not?
Still, the way he looks at me feels like it’s something. The way he clears his throat after a moment and tells me good night, dismissing me like the last time, feels like something, too.
Like he can’t be alone with me for too long.
The next few days blur together. Meals, small talk, a strangely domestic routine that feels oddly comforting. I’ve always liked routine, having something that I can count on, even if school or work or life in general had become insanely stressful, and having one here helps. Ronan shows me where the gym is, and I spend hours running on the treadmill and doing yoga stretches, burning off my excess energy that way. I have things from my house now, too—clothes of my own, my favorite winter coat, books and movies that I like, and that helps. I bundle up one afternoon and go for a walk in the garden, which is pruned back and covered up for the winter, the cobblestone paths snowy and slippery. With the backdrop of the historic estate and the sprawling snow-covered grounds, it feels like something out of a fairytale.
Ronan has dinner with me, checks on me periodically, chats with me if we pass each other during the day, but he keeps thatphysical distance. It doesn’t stop the growing tension, though. I catch him looking at me occasionally, his eyes lingering a little too long during a meal, and I try not to look at him the same way, but it’s hard. He’s beautiful, gorgeous in a way that seems unreal, and the longer I’m around him, the more I can’t deny that it’s not just his looks.
I didn’t ever think I would be drawn to a man like him, to strength and power and violence, but I am. There’s something in me that keeps going back to what he did to Neil, that’s aroused by it, drawn into it like a moth to a flame. At night, when I’m alone in bed, I can’t keep myself from thinking about him when my hand slides down between my thighs. And more than once, I’ve thought about the blood on his fingers as I come.
Friday night, a full two weeks after I was taken and a week after Ronan brought me here, he comes up to the library after dinner, where I’m reading by the fire. He picks out a book of his own, sinking into a comfortable leather armchair, and I’m startled by how normal this feels—the two of us reading side by side in this ridiculously luxurious library.
The room is silent except for the crackling of the fire and the occasional clink of my wine glass or his whiskey glass as one of us sets it down on the side tables, but I see him looking at me occasionally out of the corner of my eye. As the minutes tick by, I can feel the air thickening, a tension there that wasn’t there before just by virtue of us being in the same room together, alone, in this all-too-romantic setting.
I try to focus on my book and ignore it. But it’s impossible. The snow is falling outside, big flakes dusting against the massive windows, the fire is warm and bright, and the most handsome man I’ve ever met is sitting across from me. I glance up at him, and I feel my body react, my thighs squeezing together as I try not to think about everything we could do. Everything he could teach me.
I drop my book onto my lap. Maybe talking will help dissolve the tension between us. I cast around for something I’m curious about, and finally settle on a question that might annoy him. But that might not be the worst thing in the world, honestly. That might dispel the tension, at least.
“Do you ever regret it?” I ask curiously. “Choosing this life?”
Ronan goes very still. "That's a complicated question."
I shrug. "Most interesting questions are."
He hesitates, reaching for his whiskey glass. "I didn't choose this life, not exactly. I was born into it. It chose me."
"But you could have left, right? Said you didn’t want it? Done something else?”
"Could I have?" He meets my eyes directly. "This isn't something you just walk away from, Leila. There are loyalties, obligations, family ties that go back generations. I inherited more than just money from my father when he handed the reins of Boston over to me. I inherited responsibility for dozens of families, people whose livelihoods depend on the decisions I make. There’s a weight to everything I do.” He pauses, and I think I know what he’s not saying. There are consequences for what he decided to do with me,forme, too. He’s just not telling me about it.
I’m not entirely sure I want to know.
“That seems like it might be lonely,” I say quietly.
Ronan takes a sip of his whiskey. “Yes,” he says finally. “It can be. It can be isolating. But that’s not something you need to worry about.”
Silence falls between us again, the tension unresolved. I get up, needing something to do, and go back to the bookshelves, looking for something else to read. Maybe the book I chose just isn’t holding my attention enough.
After a moment, I hear Ronan speak again. “I’m surprised you didn’t try to run. After what I did to Neil.”
I turn around, my back to the shelves, and look at him. My heart does that odd flip in my chest, seeing him silhouetted in the firelight. My gaze drifts over his face, his forearms, his hands, and I feel my pulse flutter in my throat.
I swallow hard. “I liked it,” I say quietly. “That you killed someone because they hurt me.”
Something unreadable flashes in his eyes. He sets his glass down, closes the book, and puts it on the side table. And then, slowly, he stands up, crossing the room to stand in front of me. It’s only a few strides, but it feels like it takes forever, like I’m watching him move in slow motion.
“You shouldn’t,” he says quietly, looking down at me.
“Why not?” I whisper, and his jaw tightens.
